


La Chapelle au Paradis

by Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Devout to Godless, M/M, Piety into sacrilege, Priest!Sanzo x Burlesque Dancer!Goku, Refined into obscene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone/pseuds/Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone
Summary: With a new age comes the rise of a new entertainment—as the people, young and old, fall in love with the allure of the unspeakable things. Such is the power of temptation in the form of a golden-eyed, captivating boy enslaving the hearts of those who lay eyes on him—that not even a man whose life had been dedicated to the Most Divine can resist.
Relationships: Genjo Sanzo and Son Goku, Genjo Sanzo/Son Goku
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Un

Days flow like the water—unceasing, unyielding. Try as people may to stop time, they can never do it.

Inside the houses of the deities, however, time seems to stop. Under the high ceilings of marbled stone and the walls that hear the muttered prayers of those who believe and those who seek guidance, Genjo Sanzo finds comfort in the form of his daily routine. Dull and lifeless as it may seem to the eyes of an outsider, the priest seems not to mind, as he holds masses and presides over weddings and wakes and listens to confessions of those who repent—

—life is going well for him, he thinks, and he nods to himself, trying to ease the nudge of worldly thoughts that creep from the church doors.

Outside, the very world moves forward day by day. With their advancements in technology and fascination for the ever evolving fashion and fixations that are too shameful to even utter through untainted lips, it is a miracle that he hasn’t been sullied by the people. Then again, such a thing can never happen, as he is bound to the walls of the church he calls his home.

His footsteps are a dull echo in contrast with the deafening clamor of the people outside, and he peeks through the cracks of the large and heavy doors, tutting when he sees the figures of people clad in both Eastern and Western clothing, walking down the street, some armed with a bottle of liquor, and some, holding the hand of a woman, or both. The priest harrumphs, and doesn’t take his sights off the streets as he closes the door.

He removes his black cassock, drapes it over one of the pews, and creaks his neck.

“Today has been another eventful day,” he convinces himself in deadpan, frowning as he retrieves his cassock and ascends the stairs behind the altar. Calling it a day may have been too soon, however, when he hears rapid knocking on the doors. Sighing, he descends the stairs in a hurry, donning his cassock once more as he does so, and opens the doors to see a man lying on the steps, face on the ground, his fist ready to knock once more.

Sanzo frowns, and acknowledges the man, “Good evening, what brings you to the house of prayer? Shouldn’t you be at home?”

The man grumbles something unintelligible under the stench of beer emanating from his mouth as he wobbles to stand and lean one arm against the door, and the priest takes a step back on instinct as his nose twitches at the offending smell. The man makes faces as he opens his jaw and glides his tongue over his upper teeth, yawning as he scratches his flaming red hair, and he looks over at the priest with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Say, uh, Your Holiness. Can I sleep here for the night? My friend lost my key and we had an ugly fight and I ended up in the bar and here.”

The man says it without so much as a blink, that the priest has to take a few seconds to comprehend the man’s words. “So, what are you implying—”

“Just let me stay for the night, Your Holiness. I’ll sleep on the floor and not dirty the pews if that’s what you’re afraid of—”

The priest looks over at the sloppy way of dress the man wears. Muddied black slacks, rumpled dress shirt that had probably been once white, a lint-ridden black suit.

The priest frowns, but door opens wider as he steps aside with a resigned sigh, and gestures inside. “You’re welcome to seek sanctuary for the night if you so wish,” he says in monotone, his violet eyes appearing almost weary as the drunken man perks up at the words and grins, giving him a sloppy salute.

“Thanks, Your Holiness! I owe you one,” he says with a hiccup as he steps inside, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders just the slightest at the sight of the altar. “Pardon the intrusion, Your Lordship—ah, um, I can sleep on the floor…”

“No need,” the priest mumbles as he turns away from the man, his strides hurried as he goes behind the altar. The man looks around, stunned and awkward at the sudden act—

“Look, uh, Reverend, I know I’m just a lowly man, but—”

The sound of shuffling cloths behind the altar stops his words, and the priest emerges once more bearing a folded mattress and a comforter. Sanzo plops them in the man’s arms and nods.

“Use that,” he says, and walks away, turning towards a corner behind the altar.

Once alone, the man looks at the soft, white mattress and the comforter, and shrugs with a smile.

“Well, at least I’m safe from the cold.”

* * *

Monday comes with few attendees in service. With only the first day of the week, Sanzo lets the matter slide, secretly feeling relieved upon having few chores to do for the day, it has always been like this, after all. On the following days, however, he notices a recurring occurrence when night falls.

The man who had sought sanctuary a few days ago keeps returning, requesting for a night’s rest, with the excuse of being locked out of his room every time.

Sanzo takes it all with a sharp sigh and turns a blind eye, and accepts the man into the church. As long as the man takes nothing from the church, then all is good, he repeats to himself.

Tonight, however, seems to be different, as the man pesters the priest about his lack of attendants. They talk for some time as the priest cleans the chalices on the altar, and all subjects seem to end up on why the priest is always alone. Upon calmly telling him that he manages the church alone unless necessary, the man seems to be taken aback, blinking as he looks around in surprise.

The man’s long and tanned arms wave about in stunned silence, and when he has taken all that he can, he faces the passive priest, scoffing with a forced smile. “Don’t tell me you even clean the lights all around here all by yourself,” he laughs out, expecting even a small chuckle from the priest, but sees none. “Wait—don’t tell me you…?”

“I told you. I can manage by myself.”

The man freezes, and his lips part at the sight of the priest’s downturned eyes. Pity, he thinks, as the priest has enthralling violet eyes. “Oh,” he lets out in a quiet breath, nodding absentmindedly. The sound of cloth against the rim of the chalice stops as the priest gives the man a small smile.

“It has always been this way.”

The man clamps his mouth shut as he nods and looks away to a pew, chucking his hand in his pocket as he mutters an apology.

“I don’t mind,” the priest replies as he places the chalices in a wooden box and hides them under the altar.

The man nods, scratching his face as he eyes the altar with confusion, “You have taken wine, then? Every Sunday?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

The man shrugs, smiling as he scratches his nose and looks away, “Nothing much. Say, Your Holiness, have you—” He glances at the way the priest looks, notices the blond hair, the pale skin, and the attractiveness he emits with every turn of his head. If the priest doesn’t act indifferent all the time, the man thinks that the priest may actually look even prettier—he pauses in his musings, and clears his throat. “Have you been to a bar? The decent ones, I mean.”

“Why would I go to such a place?” the priest asks with a snort, and hides his distaste with a polite cough. “I can’t possibly be around the presence of people who abuse the provisions given by the Lord.”

“Ah,” the man says, looking away with a bashful grin, “right.” He forces out a laugh as the priest’s brow scrunches in confusion, and the man hisses through a too wide of a smile, “It’s just… well, I’m just thinking—Your Holiness could use some time off from your sacred duties. What’s that scripture again…? Ah, ‘a time to weep and a time to laugh’, was it?”

“If you’re talking about Ecclesiastes, yes.”

“Ecclesiastes. Right. Um, my point is, you can do your religious duties better if you take some time to relax and enjoy the labors of the people.”

“I am relaxed. Are you saying I’m doing my job wrong?”

The man freezes and waves his hands about, shaking his head in vehemence, and laughs out, “I didn’t mean that, Your Holiness! What I mean is, since you’re in here all alone every day, you can—I don’t know—you can go out and have some fun every now and then. Laughter is good for the soul, you know! Ah, here—” He fishes out a red card and hands it over to the priest, to which the latter takes with an unspoken curiosity. Nodding after the card, the man grins and cocks his head, “That place provides great laughter for the downtrodden and the heavyhearted, provides you with everything you can think of and more. It’s the best place to escape the reality we’re living in, just…” He shrugs as he shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning at the priest once more, “If you want to take a step back and take it easy, you can go there anytime. The place is open from 5pm to 5am—”

“Who even works at cafés for that long?”

The sudden question halts the man in mid-sentence, and upon seeing the seriousness on the priest’s face, tries to let out his laughter in the form of a loud cough. “The place—the _café_ —has to be cleaned up to perfection daily, Your Holiness. Can’t have the people getting diseases these days, if you know what I mean.” He wags his eyebrows at the priest, and seeing his lack of recognition at the joke, frowns and waves a hand at the card in the priest’s hand. “If someone ever comes up to you and asks you who you are, just say that you’re a close colleague of mine—”

“What—”

“I’m Sha Gojyo, by the way,” he says with a toothy grin, chucking out his hand for the priest to shake.

The priest eyes the hand warily, and looks at Gojyo’s smug face. With apprehension, he shakes Gojyo’s hand, and mutters, “Sanzo.”

“Huh?”

“My name. Sanzo.”

“Oh, good! I’ll call you by your name then. Calling you Your Holiness all of the time sounds too tedious. Well, I’ll be taking my leave for now, Sanzo!” he says in a voice too loud for Sanzo to tolerate, and laughs as he turns around and walks away. “I’ll be returning in a few days!”

“Ah. Hey, wait—”

The church doors close, leaving the priest alone in once more.

He tuts, and frowns at the red card in his hand. Written in neat, white calligraphy, he reads the label, “La Chapelle. Hm.” He turns it over, sees nothing more at the back, and furrows his brows. Pursing his lips, he chucks the card inside his alb, and calls it a day.

* * *

Sanzo watches as the people exit the church as soon as the mass is over, and sighs as he cleans up the altar, fussing over the small details such as the tiny drop of wine on the corporal. As soon as the people have left, he wastes no time in cleaning all of the items, frowns at the sullied corporal, and stuffs it in the wooden box along with the chalice and the paten.

He makes his rounds at the pews with the wooden box in hand, and stops when he sees a lone figure kneeling behind one pew, and Sanzo hums. He places the box on the credence table, only to return to the small figure kneeling in silent prayer. The priest blinks and shrugs as he takes a quiet interest in the boy. The others have left, so why is this boy still here?

He approaches the boy as quietly as he can, and waits for him to finish. When the boy does, he wobbles to stand as he beats at his numb knees, wincing as he leans on one pew—

“Little boy, do you have a problem you wish to convey?”

The boy turns around sees the priest—

—and Sanzo stands in silence, and is stunned at the beauty upon seeing the boy’s large, golden eyes.

“Oh, hello,” breathes the boy in mild surprise, and bows, smiling upon seeing the vestments Sanzo wears, “I am seeking for guidance, Your Lordship. Oh, and I’m not a little boy.”

At this, Sanzo blinks, and nods with a lack of attention. “Ah. Is that so?” he asks, breathless, and clears his throat, dismissing the sight of the innocent beauty this boy has. Looking at him, he notices the boy’s tanned skin, the long, brown hair tied in a low ponytail, the round, soft-looking cheeks, and the smallness of his stature compared to his. Upon seeing the boy donning a loose, russet-hued kimono, though, the priest hums, and nods in quiet approval.

Good thing to know there are still people valuing tradition.

Although, looking closely, the boy looks quite smaller in the kimono.

He bites back a remark, and straightens his back, “What kind of guidance are you looking for?”

“Guidance on whether or not I should accept my job offer,” the boy squeaks out, and the priest nods—

That sounds good enough. A young boy wanting to build his own future to contribute to society. That’s good. “Very well, then. First off, does your family know you’re working?”

“I don’t have parents, Your Lordship,” the boy says, hunching his shoulders and looking apprehensive upon answering, and the priest bites his inner cheek as he looks away.

Sanzo doesn’t like the sudden feeling of contempt weighing on his stomach upon seeing the sudden fear and sadness in those golden eyes.

“All right. Well, what is this job you speak of? Is it appropriate for your age?”

The boy fidgets and looks away, biting his lip. He toys with the hems of his sleeves, and looks back at the priest with fluttering lashes, “I think it is, Your Lordship. And yes, it’s appropriate.”

Sanzo eyes the boy with suspicion. If the job is appropriate, then why the blushing and sudden shyness? And why has he dodged the question? He lets out a quiet sigh, and musters a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Very well, then. Would you care to talk to me about it?”

The boy, who has his face covered by the sleeve of his kimono, nods, and bows low, giving the priest a glimpse of a slender, exposed, tanned nape—

The priest’s brow raises—that’s odd.

Nevertheless, he speaks to the boy, listens to him, pays attention to the happiness and optimism this boy emits, and gives him the advice befitting for a budding young man. “Are you sure you want to do your job? Is your heart and mind into it?” The boy nods, eager and grinning wider the longer he talks. Sanzo sighs, and gestures outside the church, “Then go, child, your future is waiting for you.”

The boy raises his arms and whoops in joy, only to clamp his mouth shut as he looks around, glances at the altar, and bows, “Sorry.” The priest lets it slide, and the boy bites his lip to hold back his grin.

“Thank you, Your Lordship. I’ll do my best with my job!”

Sanzo nods, and watches the boy as he exits the church. Before he leaves the steps, however, the boy turns around, waves him goodbye, and finally goes out into the streets.

Sanzo nods as the boy crosses the street, and notices for the first time that the boy’s obi is tied at the front.

He shrugs away the assumptions his head conjures, and returns to his forgotten task of washing the soiled corporal in the wooden box.

* * *

Sanzo’s following days begin to be filled with people coming into the church for confessions, often from men, rarely from women—and Sanzo becomes curious at the commonality of their confessions, all of them stemming from seeing a group of people dancing the night away.

He recites the prayers they should recite to appeal for forgiveness, and when the day it over, only then does he resign to the night of another eventful day.

It isn’t until he has resigned to his bed—in a small room just beneath the bell tower—that he notices the discarded card sitting near his pitcher of water. The card that Gojyo had given him from what had seemed like years ago sits there on the small bedside drawer, waiting for Sanzo to pick it up—and when he does, he inspects it carefully, turns it over and back, furrows his brows, and glances at his cassock lying on the chair near his desk.

He toys with the card in between his calloused fingers, runs his nail down the embossed print on the card, and hums as he glances at the door with half-lidded eyes.

* * *

He hugs his black cassock tighter around his waist as he walks down the streets that are filled with young couples flirting out in the open. He steers his eyes away from the women who wear skirts that reach just below their knees, and sighs in relief whenever he walks by a woman who wears the modest kimono. He frowns as he sees men wearing suits from the West, walking in long strides, eyeing women who favor to wear the dresses and skirts that Sanzo does not want to look at.

He also notices some of the people who wear the kimono are those of the middle-aged—and the memory of that boy kneeling in prayer, wearing the kimono that he so favors resurfaces in his mind, and Sanzo nods to himself. Although he hasn’t been wearing kimonos anymore since he had taken over the city’s church, he isn’t one to turn a blind eye to anyone who still values the traditional wear.

Tradition is to be respected, and after seeing that budding young man wearing a piece of the country’s tradition, he is convinced that the culture of the East remains etched within the future generations—

Sanzo stops and looks around, and notices a throng of people gathering outside a building. Men and women raise their arms, their hands filled with crumpled and crisp bills as they hand the money to a man sitting behind a desk by the entrance. The priest blinks, and tries to look around the crowd, and catches a glimpse of the name of the establishment—

Hanging from the top of the entrance door is a neon sign of bright red and green lights, made to look like the cursive font the Westerners seem to be partial for—

 _La Chapelle_.

He looks at the card once more, and nods. This café seems to be the place—although he wonders why there are many people gathered outside, waiting in throngs just to enter, is beyond his understanding.

Maybe the food is that exquisite? If so, maybe—

“Maybe I can try it for myself,” he mutters. Seeing the man sitting by the doorway taking the people’s cash, Sanzo comes up to him and asks, “Why are there many people here? Is there a special menu tonight?”

The man stops taking cash in mid-grab, and whips his head to where Sanzo stands. He eyes him up and down, sees the black cassock, and scoffs.

“Heh. You can say that. Why?” he turns away and grants entrance to a couple who has paid. “Are you here to preach? This is not a place to do that thing, I’m afraid.”

The man fails to see the scandalized look on Sanzo’s face as the man counts cash and grants another man entrance to the building. “I’m sorry,” Sanzo starts, levelling his voice as the man signals a few teenagers to get inside the building, “but I’m not here to preach. I’m hungry and I need to eat.”

The man and some of the people near Sanzo pause as they look at him from head to toe in scrutiny. Some of the women whisper among themselves, while some of the men whistle and catcall after hearing Sanzo’s words. The man looks at the men, then at the confused blond wearing a priestly attire—and waves some of the crumpled bills at Sanzo’s face.

“You need to pay before you enter, Pastor.”

Sanzo eyes the rumpled money with mild disgust, and glances at some of the men—and frowns as some of them leer and eye him with what he can only describe as lascivious. He suppresses a shiver that runs down his spine as he holds tightly onto his cassock. “How much?” he hisses, immediately not liking the way the words have slipped from his lips, and almost apologizes, when the man cuts him off.

“Three hundred fifty.”

Sanzo steps back, and glances at the wads of cash stacked neatly in a box next to the man. His feels the bills inside his pocket, and thinks whether it is worth the money, his _allowance_ —

The man’s fingers curl and uncurl, waiting for Sanzo’s cash—

—the priest closes his eyes as he hands him the only note he has.

“Oh?” the man breathes out, tucking the bill on both ends, “You paying for 500? Quite the move there, Pastor. Thank you for blessing us. All right, get in. You’ll even get a free meal for this.”

The man beckons the next customers in line as a guard dressed in a gray suit escorts Sanzo inside.

“Wait, how about my chang—”

“Add the additional 150 next time. Next!”

The entrance door closes on Sanzo’s face as he tries to plea for his change, and stops when he hears laughter and a deafening round of applause. He turns around and squints through the darkened entryway, and steps inside with caution as he splays his arms outwards, trying to find the nearest wall he can lean on to. He makes his way to where the loud noise grates louder in his head the more he steps inside.

And when he steps into the café, he realizes there and then that La Chapelle is, in fact, not a café—but a club.

And not just any club—

—but a _burlesque club_.

Sanzo’s eyes widen at the sight, and feels his vision blurring at every corner he looks at.

Here, inside the place where the people call La Chapelle, the women seem to be not from this world—as the women whom he has seen minutes before are now close to slipping away their modest dresses from their shoulders as they hunch closer to the men beside them, laughing the night away with a sip of liquor flowing from table to table. Walking around are servers dressed the way the Western servants dress—the men in tailcoats and pressed pants, and the women in kimonos that reach above their knees—and the stage. Oh, the stage—!

The stage is filled with women clad in nothing but feathers, dancing the applause and catcalls away as they sway their hips clad in long, flimsy tassels to a tune that Sanzo recalls as jazz. The women walk around the stage as the sultry notes fill the club, flaunting off their bodies and their dances, enticing the drunken men—and the sober women—at the tables. All of the women on stage smile as they remove what little clothing they have on their chests and crotches, turning around to grace the crowd a sight of their shapely derrière and plump thighs, only for the large, looming and colorful feathers to cover up their buttocks as they bend over, causing the men to howl and shout and clap and beg for the women to lower the feathers—

The curtains close as the song ends, and the crowd groans in disappointment, some tutting as they down another glass of wine.

All the while, Sanzo leans against the wall, and feels bile coming to his throat at what he has just seen.

His eyes dart around, looking for a semblance of familiarity in the crowd—a decent person wearing decent clothes, a woman wearing all of her clothes without exposing much of her skin, a man who won’t howl and whistle at the sight of a woman’s naked body—

His vision dims. “I want out,” he mutters in a mantra as a waitress passes him by and offers him a drink to which he declines with a shaky palm faced outwards. He reaches out to the exit, grateful for having felt his way through—

—only to stop when the club gets dimmer, to the point where Sanzo can’t see anything except for the sole limelight illuminating the stage. He swallows the lump in his throat as a tall, black-haired man appears from behind the curtains, his crisp suit and tie looking sharp against his stance—and the crowd cheers once more.

This man talks of words that bounce off Sanzo’s hearing, words that make no sense to the priest—and this man couples his fluid gestures with a wide, toothy smile, his very expression making the crowd fall for his handsome features.

Sanzo tries to level his breathing, tries to hear the thoughts in his head against the man’s booming voice on the stage. The sound of the microphone’s static grates on the priest’s ears, and he gulps, drowning the voice of the whistling and cheering crowd as the man on the stage says something with a charismatic smile and a quick wave to the curtains—

—and the drapes part to the sound of a low bass as six women clad in loose, muted green kimonos strut to the stage, their wide, colorful sashes tied into huge, loose bows swaying with each dainty step. Their small feet peek out from beneath the layers of silk as the first soulful note of the saxophone fills the air, gracing the men a glimpse of pale legs and thighs. Their shoulders peek out from their loose clothes as the bass plays a slow thrum, the light bouncing off of their collarbones and soft curves. Their faces show neutrality, and as they stop in front of the stage, they took out russet-toned fans from their cleavage, and the song plays its stirring notes. The women cover their mouths with every flutter of the fan as their other fingers dance down the length of their sashes, exposing their legs with each trill of the hypnotizing music. The paleness of these slender legs enchant the men as the dancers dip lower to the floor, their legs parting more and more as the lights grow dimmer—

The music stops for a moment, and Sanzo gathers his bearings as he squints looking for the exit—

The faint rustling of another set of curtains parting meets his ears, and, with a morbid curiosity, his violet eyes slide to the stage, and feels his palms grow damp when a lone, tanned figure steps in—

—walking on his tiptoes and dressed in nothing but a sheer, red babydoll.

Sanzo’s breath hitches in his throat, and tries to avert his gaze, only to find all the patrons and employees alike stunned in awe at the languid movements of the petite boyish figure on stage.

Chestnut brown hair. Eyes spun in bright gold. A small, boyish face blooming into that of a young man’s. Plump cheeks framed by a jawline developing into prominence. Collarbones jutting from the confines of the sheer fabric. Skin bronzed by the sun. Lean and toned muscles that Sanzo didn’t know the boy had—

The priest gulps. Sanzo feels a trickle of sweat down his back upon realizing who the boy on the stage is. Is this the boy he had talked to before? The one who asked him for advice about taking a job? Was that why the boy had looked apprehensive upon being asked about this… _job_?

“…is this the work he was talking about?” He pales, feels his blood grow cold as he steps back. “Is this… the result of my advice…? I—” He wants out. He wants out and he wants it _now_.

He looks away from the display of tanned legs and hips and torso and— _look away_.

Sanzo squints in the dark, trying to see any semblance of a door, an opening, an exit, _anything_ , for him to escape—and feels his breath go short when he finds _none_.

Resigning to his fate, he buries his face in his palms instead. Maybe if he closes his eyes long enough, time will go faster—

The roaring whoops and whistles of the crowd pierces his ears as the low sound of saxophone reverberates in the air, and the priest’s traitorous hands lower from his eyes when he hears fists repeatedly _banging_ on the table in apparent delight.

On the stage, he sees the boy, the innocent-looking boy that he had met a while back, caressing his chin in a feather-light touch all the way to his navel, his neck throwing back, exposing more of the bobbing Adam’s apple there, revealing more of that tanned skin under the stage lights as he parts his lips, exposing the faintest glimmer of white teeth and the sheen of the inside of his mouth as the boy slowly, _deliberately_ , parts his legs to bare more of that utterly _obscene_ display of unmentionable male parts and realizes that the boy is a young man in his teens judging from what he has seen—

Sanzo lets out a breath he doesn’t know he had been holding for who-knows-how-long. He can’t bear it. It’s too much. _Too_. _Much_.

It’s too much, he knows that well, but—

The young man starts to move, undulating his body in a way that mesmerizes the audience with his seemingly shy moves as he abruptly stands and thrusts his right leg out, his small feet outstretched to a random man in the audience who looks dangerously close to standing up just to reach the exposed leg—

A rumbling of a growl is heard, and Sanzo looks around, and sees no one beside him, and finds out that the unnatural, the _animalistic_ , sound—had come from himself.

He gulps, his eyes going wide at the realization—and shakes his head. No. _No_. It can’t be. It’s unheard of for a man such as himself to—

The reverberating sound of a long and drawn-out sigh echoes in the hall, and the priest’s eyes snap up to where the young man now clasps a microphone stand in his spindly fingers, their movements suggestive as he gives the audience a lazy smile, his eyes almost glazed under the limelight that seems to highlight every jutting bone on his sinfully taintless body—

He leans back, taking the stand with him, drawing the microphone to his chest. The young man caresses it, licks the air as his mouth further slides open, sending the crowd in a frenzy of whistles and cheers—and the young man smiles as he gyrates to the sound of the staccatos of the piano, raising his leg higher and higher, revealing the lean flesh under the gossamer cloth—

A gasp escapes from the performer’s lips, its sound sending a jolt down the priest’s spine. Sanzo freezes in his seat, and finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from the immoral sight.

“ _Heavens above, deliver me from the wicked—_ ”

The tanned male puts the microphone stand back in its place and gives the entranced crowd another smile, another mid-raise of the leg, before putting it back down just as quick, his hands doing a mock-shame gesture of covering what little he can of his naked self. He turns around, the hoots grow louder as they see the pert, little bottom through the sheer fabric, and he cranes his head back, giving everyone a coy smile and a bite of his lower lip as he tries to cover up his derrière as he sticks it out more, pulling on the cloth lower in a faux attempt of covering himself, but to no avail.

Sanzo finds himself unable to close his eyes anymore, barely registering that his lips have now slightly parted as the young man dips further down on the floor, and takes two, large, golden feather fans from where the audience couldn’t see on the floor as he stands up and covers himself with the fans, grinning at the crowd as he once more teases them with a raise of his leg, and in a series of kicks, he lets it stay there as he fans himself—

The croon of the saxophone grows louder as he fans himself faster, the feathered hems of the babydoll raising from his skin as the young man sways onto the edge of the stage. He gives everyone another smile, and steps onto the nearest table in front of him, drawing groans and wolf-whistles from the patrons on the table.

The young man twirls, tiptoes on the table, and parts his legs in front of a practically drooling man. As soon as a hand reaches out to touch him, however, the young man licks his lips, and steps onto another table, earning wistful sighs from the customers.

He keeps this up all over the hall—covering himself up the whole time save for a few seconds of a peek of tanned skin. The music grows louder as he nears the middle to where Sanzo can clearly see everything up close despite his apparent farsightedness. The crowd claps and whoops as the beat of the drum grows louder, urging the young man to finally throw his feather fans to the floor to reveal his now lack of clothing save for a tight-fitting, small piece of cloth tied around his waist and under his buttocks, emphasizing its plumpness in its restraints.

The priest feels his breathing run shorter and shorter as the young man leans back onto the table and thrusts his hips into the air in repeat, closing his eyes as his lips fall open, caressing one tanned hand onto the expanse of his skin, down to his chest, to his stomach, and when they think he’s going to touch further, a thin rope lowers in front of him.

The young man splays his fingers above his crotch, hovers it there—and reaches for the rope, pulling it with a rough tug—

Sanzo hears a faint click from above, and sees in a split second of a gate of sorts opening overhead—

—to spill a cascade of water down the young man’s rippling body, soaking everyone in the vicinity of the table sopping wet, and earning the roaring applause and clamor of the audience as the crescendo careens to a halt, with the young man’s chest popping to a stop at the final note.

The young man sits up kneeling, opens his eyes, licks his upper teeth, and grins at the whooping crowd.

Unbeknownst to him, sitting just a few meters away, is the priest he had sought advice to a few days ago, unmoving in his seat—

Sanzo feels shivers wracking his body despite the lack of cold air in the hall.

The priest looks down, and sees a splotch of something wet on his slacks that he’s sure hadn’t been from the sudden splash of water.

* * *


	2. Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y’all going to be too offended with this, just don’t read it at all.

* * *

Sanzo takes a swig of cold water, and gulps it down in one go.

He had exited out of the bar and immediately returned to the church the moment the black-haired man—which he had assumed was the host—had ushered the tanned young man to the nearest door which was probably the changing room, carrying his large, colorful fans and the thin babydoll that had fallen to the floor during the performance.

Sanzo huffs as he puts the empty glass on the table. That… _scene_ couldn’t even be called a performance. It was a mockery of anything decent. He can’t even call that entertainment!

And the name the young man had chosen for himself was downright atrocious—

— _The Divine Child_ , the host had called him.

Sanzo almost hurls what little food he had. Such outright _blasphemy_. Calling someone as indecent as that young man ‘divine’ was a complete ridicule of the actual divine—

He swallows the bile that threatens to hurl from his throat. It was a desecration of anything holy. No wonder the people have been flocking to the churches for guidance—!

He pauses, and looks down, and remembers what happened to him in that bar after he had seen that… _ghastly_ performance. He lets out a shuddering breath, and pours himself another glass, gulping it down with the liquid spilling down the sides of his lips and to his chin.

He goes to sleep with his brows furrowed, tossing and turning the whole night as he tries to remove the images of a young man decked in nothing but his nakedness, dancing the night away.

* * *

When the young man who has been plaguing Sanzo’s dreams comes bursting into church on the premise of confessing his sins on an early Monday morning, the priest can’t believe his ears, and thinks he has lost his hearing.

Sanzo had almost forgotten the whole ordeal of the young man with the startling golden eyes who had danced naked in front of people—feels like that event had happened a century ago, and wishes not to dwell on it.

He asks the young man again, who had been running all the way to the church, judging from the wind-swept hair, the flushed face and the sweat trickling down his body and to his clothes—

Sanzo closes his eyes for a moment. _Don’t dwell on it_.

“I want to confess my sins, Your Holiness,” the young man repeats, and Sanzo lets out a withheld sigh, but tries not to let his slight annoyance show to this young repentant. Show mercy. Yes. That should be it.

And so confess his sins, he does. As Sanzo listens on the other side of the stall, his thoughts wander to that night, where flushed and tanned skin meets his eyes. Eyes that have been deprived of such a sight to behold under the lights. He holds back a groan as his mind’s eye relives the parts where the young man danced and undulated his body to the croon of the saxophone, the soft curves of that tantalizing flesh making every person in the hall become wolves with their stares devouring his every move as those fingers smoothed down his naked body—

“—…tor? Pastor?”

Sanzo blinks, and clears his throat with a suppressed jolt, “Yes?”

“I’m… done, with confessing, Your Holiness.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

The silence in the confessional settles on them, heavy and uncomfortable, and the priest tries to regain his composure as he sits up straight, and tries to relieve the pressure around his neck from the collar of his cassock. He tells them of the things the young man needs to do to alleviate himself from the sins he had committed—not that Sanzo had heard what he actually said—and tells him of the prayers he should recite in sequence, and in turn, the young man thanks the priest with a smile in his voice, and Sanzo tries to peek through the small holes in the confessional, to look at the young man on the other side. And true enough, the repentant still remains the same young man as the one Sanzo had in his dreams and in the bar—

Is this young man truly repentant, he wonders, and shakes his head. No. There shouldn’t be a seed on doubt on anyone who confesses their sins. The church is open to anyone, no matter what line of work they have—

“Pastor?”

“Yes?” the priest replies in urgency, and hopes that the young man hasn’t noticed he hasn’t been paying attention.

“Is there anything else I should be wary of?”

Sanzo pauses his thoughts. Something that the boy should be wary of are many things—molesters, to name a few, and random drunkards who may creep up on him in the night—

He coughs, “The people around you may be wolves in sheep’s clothing. Do keep a wary eye against them.” There. That should be fine.

The young man hums, and Sanzo can see through the little holes that he has his forefinger under chin, his eyes upwards in a thoughtful look as he pouts those fleshy lips, and _oh_ —

Sanzo looks down, and shifts in his seat.

“Pastor?”

“Yes?” the priest hisses, and realizes he doesn’t like the way the word slips out of his tongue, like he’s out of breath, and in a dire need for air—

“I’m working hard at my job,” the young man says in a shy fashion, with his hands clasped between his closed knees, and gives off an innocent air with that bashful smile of his, and the priest almost harrumphs—almost.

“That’s… good,” he says in finality, his voice sounding more levelled than it had a few seconds ago. He grunts and shifts in his seat once more, and eyes the young man, “Say, child—” The aforementioned child gives him a sharp look, and he tries again, “—young man. What’s your name? So I can pray for you to the Lord. You need all the guidance you can get, it seems.”

The young man’s cheeks puff as he smiles, his brows raising at the priest, and Sanzo’s eyes widen for a fraction—

“Son Goku, Your Lordship. I’m Son Goku,” the young man beams, and it takes all of Sanzo’s willpower not to exit the confessional and go to the other side of the stall just to look at that face. “And uh, I might… be doing more confessions as time goes on, Pastor,” he adds, the coy look on his face returning. “We are all sinners, after all.”

Sanzo eyes him with a solemn stare and hums as he glances down at himself once more, “Yes. Yes, we are.”

* * *

Days pass slowly for Sanzo as he resumes his daily duties in church. With the nearby businesses booming, the people flocking to the church for guidance with their financial needs also rise—not that Sanzo sees that as a bad thing, but going to church simply asking for advice regarding money is a bit much for the priest.

His regulars seem to be in a state of constant, too, much to Sanzo’s chagrin. It has come to the point that even some regulars ask him what he does on his free time, and the answer has always been the same—

“I like to read on my spare time; sometimes even watch the people passing by.”

That has always been his answer, and he cares not for the people who may find his hobby mundane. He likes to keep it that way, so not many people would pry, but—

“What kind of books do you read? Do you like to travel, Reverend?” comes the follow-up questions from some of the devotees, most of them the females, the single ones, those who are seeking to alleviate their loneliness in some form or another. Some of them even come from the betrothed, seeking an insightful and lighthearted conversation away from their fiancés. And what better candidate than the young, striking priest—a devout, a holy man, untainted by the world? No better prospect could ever compare—!

And Sanzo answers them all with a forced smile and controlled words. No need to be impatient now—that’s not a sign of a holy man.

It isn’t until the blushing maidens being carried away by their tightlipped fiancés from the priest that Sanzo finally finds a moment of peace. Sanzo detects the dislike from the male devotees, but he says nothing of it. He wants none of the complications that stem from a relationship. The only relationship he wants is to be closer to the Most High—

“Pastor, good day!”

—or so he says to himself.

He rearranges his cassock as the young man from before jogs over to him with the same wide smile he has been having for the past few weeks. The young man dons a hakama that seems to be a tad too big for him, as the priest can see him almost trip a couple of times. He holds his tongue and doesn’t comment on it.

“Good day to you, too, Goku. I take it you’re off to work?” he starts as a greeting while stowing the chalices away. He sees Goku bow his head, meekly, Sanzo notices, eyeing him with a small smile. Goku tells him that he has no work today, and has decided that he’d take a stroll, and has ended up in church as a result. “Oh?” the priest asks, now standing before him with mild surprise. “You have a rest day, I see.”

Goku smiles, tight-lipped, and bows once more, and it piques Sanzo’s interest. His violet eyes narrow a fraction at the young man, who still has his head down despite the bashful smile stuck on his face. And he wonders out loud—

“Is there… something you want to tell me? Or perhaps… something you _don’t_ want to tell me?”

Goku snaps upward, his golden eyes wide at the man, and his smile falls into a quivering lower lip, gulping, but still has the blush tainting his tanned cheeks. Sanzo raises an eyebrow.

“Are you perhaps… ill?”

Goku shakes his head furiously, and bites his lower lip, looking away from the priest. Sanzo takes in a breath and almost starts again, when Goku stares at him once more, with tears in his eyes.

“I want to confess, My Father!”

* * *

Under the moonlight, Sanzo gulps down another glass of wine, tipping it down to his throat as the liquid slips past his chin.

In the silence of his dimly lit room, Sanzo looks down at the people crossing the streets below as he mulls over Goku’s recent confession. He closes his eyes, his grip on the glass tightening as he grits his teeth. He tries to calm himself down despite the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage, and the blood pounding on his ears. He mentally counts to ten, and when it doesn’t work, he mentally recites prayers, and when even _those_ don’t work—he slides his eyes to the moon, silent and large, as though it knows his every move and thought. He glances at the half-empty bottle of wine on the table, and buries his head on his knee. Confusion and something he can’t name eats his thoughts as Goku’s words replay in his head, making him feel… _something_.

“‘I punched a man in the face because he tried to feel at my behind,’ huh…”

A heavy feeling settles on Sanzo as he feels lightheaded, and, not wanting to do anything reckless in his current lack of sobriety, he settles the glass down on his bedside table and plops on the bed, and turns off the gas lamp. Staring at the ceiling, he mulls over why he had acted like he had earlier. It was not like himself, really—

Sanzo turns to one side, and looks at his drawer. He blinks, once, twice, and his brows furrow as he angrily yanks the covers over him, and forces himself to sleep. And after what seems like an eternity, he finds himself still unable to fully sleep—and only finds solace in slumber and wakes up every few minutes, with Goku’s words still ringing in his ear—

‘ _He tried to feel at my behind._ ’

His eyes snap to the moon now sitting high in the sky, his breathing coming out in quiet puffs.

The ticking of the grandfather clock echoes loud against his beating heart.

And as the clock strikes midnight, his breathing stills, and feels his heart going mellow as he sits up.

He glances at the drawer to his left, and hums as he glances at his cassock on the coat rack by the door, and gulps.

* * *

Sanzo lowers his black fedora hat, trying to avoid catching anyone’s attention as he leaves the church by the back door. It is past midnight, and the air grows cold as he tries to feel comfortable in his black overcoat, covering his white button-down shirt and black slacks as he makes his way to the place he has been trying to avoid for the past few weeks, trying to avoid looking at anyone in the eye lest they recognize who he is.

On his way to the third block, he can already see the throng of people outside, waiting for their turn to enter. He huffs, and feels for something in his pants pocket as he makes his way to the counter.

The man sitting by the doorway is the same as last time. Rumpled black hair. Round glasses that slide almost down to his nose. A glib smile every time he’s handed cash. A scruffy goatee. An unlit cigarette in between his lips.

Sanzo’s eye twitches.

“Cash first before you get in,” the man says with his hand outstretched, still not looking up as he writes something down on a notepad.

Sanzo grumbles, and pulls out cash from his pocket, chucking it on the man’s palm. Only then does the man look up to inspect the payment.

“Hey, you’re short of a few hundred. Pay up.”

“You said I’d only pay 150 because you didn’t give me my change.”

The man hums and looks up at Sanzo, squinting as he tries to take in his appearance, and simpers as he stares at Sanzo’s expressionless face, “Ah. I apologize, then. I didn’t know it was you. What brings you here? I know, care to have another look, _Pastor_?”

Sanzo’s eye twitches once more, and holds back a grunt, and grumbles, “I’m here to… meet up with someone.”

The man’s grin widens as he punches the cash in the register, and hands him a ticket. His glasses slip to the edge of his nose, and he looks at Sanzo with a toothy grin, “Well then, if that’s it—please, don’t let me keep you. Stay for as long as you like, _Pastor_.”

Sanzo bites back anything he wants to say to the man, not liking the way he has said his title in such a mocking manner, and as he’s granted entrance inside, he feels panic rush in as he enters the bar, not wanting to relive his memories of the place from just a few weeks ago. He can’t even remember how he had gotten out of it—

The bar erupts in cheers, wolf-whistles, and applause as a woman decked only in bits of cloth sticking to her chest and around her hips dances on the stage, with the sound of the saxophone and drums resounding loudly in the hall. Sanzo tries to find an empty seat, and finds one nearest to the exit. He takes a seat, and observes the people around him, and finds them to be the same—the same heady perfumes, the boisterous laughter, the overflowing liquor, the excessive amount of skin that exposes the women, the lecherous grins from the men—

Sanzo holds back the bile that tries to claw to his throat.

“Would you like a menu?”

Sanzo looks up to a brown-haired man with a monocle, smiling at him, and he looks at the proffered menu, taking it with a grumbled thanks. The waiter smiles, takes a bow, and leaves. The priest squints at the letters on the menu, and he holds it far from his face, tutting.

“Having a hard time?”

Sanzo bites back a retort, and glances to his right, where he sees the black-haired man from before. “…The host,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing at the host’s tightlipped smile.

The pale host, who’s dressed in a dark purple tailcoat and black slacks, waves at him, and bows, “I’m Homura Taishi, one of the hosts and also the owner of La Chapelle. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Sanzo raises an eyebrow, and hides his surprise with a tip of a hat and a slight bow, “Pleased to meet you, too. Oh, and no, I’m not having a hard time, it’s just—” The priest pauses, and takes a moment before staring intently at the host, and finds that he has two different colors on each eye—one gold, and one blue. Strange. He coughs, and tries again, “—it’s just that Go—…one of your… employees here have… well, I have some concerns over some of the patrons here who treat your employees with disrespect.”

The host hums, standing straight as he raises an eyebrow at his customer, “Which employee are we talking about here, sir?”

Sanzo briefly scans the room, and sees none of the familiar face he has been seeing, and he almost clicks his tongue. “I… don’t know his real name, but I believe you called him, ‘The Divine Child’?”

“Ah,” Homura replies, clapping once in realization, “the new one who just applied a few weeks ago! Well, yes, it’s… unfortunate, to say the least, but—sometimes, customers, they, well, they sometimes forget their behavior once liquor has settled in their system.”

Sanzo eyes the host with indifference, and his finger taps on the table twice, “I… haven’t really seen exactly what happened due to me sitting far, the only thing I noticed was that he looked quite upset upon leaving.”

The host taps his index finger on his lips, looking quite thoughtful, and seems to look far ahead, as though trying to remember something, “Hm, yes. I haven’t noticed the entire thing as I was behind the stage at the time, but based on what he said, as he had descended the stage, one man from the front tried to grab his bare bottom and caressed his privates. Goku made quite a scene after that, and punched the fellow in the face. I believe he had broken his jaw and his nose. Goku can be quite a handful when he’s provoked, especially if it involves someone trying to touch him such an insolent way. I had to escort the not-so-gentleman and his lady friend out of the bar and ban them altogether. Such customers endangering my employees’ security at work is not tolerated.” The creases on the host’s brow furrows, as though he remembers something unpleasant, and then he clears his throat, and bows with a lopsided smile, “Thank you for showing concern over my employees. I assure you, if such an incident would one day to occur once more, I’ll have them get sent to the authorities if it eases your mind, sir.”

Homura smiles at the frowning man, and gestures to the menu, “Now, about the menu, sir…?”

“…Genjo.”

“Mr. Genjo, now, as per usual, La Chapelle has a variety of delicacies you might like to try. Some of them are from the West, as is the norm nowadays. What would you like to have?”

Sanzo initially wanted to reject the proffered menu, but that may rise suspicion from the host, and so he moved the menu far from his face once more. “Farsighted,” he comments, when he notices Homura blinking at him in confusion. “Well, I’ll have the buckwheat noodles with leeks and shrimp. No beef, but with a bowl of mayonnaise. Water manjuu for dessert, and some green tea, if you will.”

The host nods, writes down his order, and eyes him with a smile, “Would you like some croquettes and alcohol of your choosing while you wait, sir? It’ll take at least 20 minutes.” He smiles expectantly at the blond, at waits for a reply.

It takes a while, and Sanzo almost says no, that he has had enough to drink for one night, but—to calm himself down, Sanzo lets out a breath, and nods, “…Pure rice sake, then.”

Homura nods, his smile widening as he jots down the order, “Understood. We’ll have your meal prepared shortly.” The host leaves, and Sanzo observes the hall.

He observes the dancer on stage—a woman quite buxom and knows how to flaunt her assets to the cheering crowd while she’s dressed in too-small clothing and too-large feathers—and Sanzo sighs. Surmising that Goku won’t be appearing very soon due to his apparent day off, Sanzo takes a moment to relish the green tea and croquettes that are placed on his table as soon as Homura reaches one of the tables on the far end of the hall, telling a waiter to bring them to him. He nods in silence, relishing the taste of potatoes and cheese.

An uneventful night it has become, Sanzo realizes as soon as the food is set before him. He eats in silence, trying to drown the noise around him, and occasionally pretends to even care at the performers on stage. From the corner of his eye, he can see Homura standing on the far end of the hall, observing the current host in silence, smiling and nodding every once in a while.

Sanzo directs his attention to the man on the stage, and his mouth forms a small ‘oh’ when he realizes that the man on stage is none other than Sha Gojyo, grinning and throwing crass jokes at the audience in hopes of gaining laughter as he loosens his red necktie. They did laugh, but he didn’t. Sanzo chewed on his food in silence, and often paid attention to his sake, gulping it down more often than he takes a sip of his green tea. At one point, he catches Homura’s eye as he passes Sanzo by; the host smiles, while the priest nods.

As soon as he finishes his food, tea, and liquor, he makes his way for the exit, his mind too muddled to think of anything else except to go home. He had found out what had happened to Goku, and now he wanted to go lie down in his bed and probably not open the doors to church for at least a week until his hangover gets the best of him—

“Mr. Genjo, leaving so soon? Why, it’s only 30 minutes past one! The night is still young, sir.”

Sanzo turns a sharp eye to the one who has just spoken to him with such a cheerful voice, and murmurs, “I need to go home.”

The host and owner nods, and goes, “Oh. Well, I do apologize, sir. Sorry to have kept you, then. Do have a good night and take care on your way home. Would you like a drive home?”

Sanzo pauses, and almost scoffs, before shaking his head, smiling, “Thank you for the offer, but really, I’m fine. I live just around the corner.”

Homura beams, and bows, bidding him farewell on his way out. He sees Sanzo pass by the cashier at the front, and Homura returns inside.

“Going home so soon?” the cashier inquires as he sees Sanzo, still with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

Sanzo, not trusting himself to speak at any given moment, only nods and tips his hat as he passes him by, and briskly makes his way back to church, where he’s sure to collapse the moment he sets foot inside.

He buries his hands in his coat pockets, not meeting anyone’s eye as he makes a turn on the next corner and walks quickly. He takes a mental note that it should now be at around 1:45AM, and really should be getting some sleep. His lack of rest always results in him snapping at everyone, and he doesn’t like that.

That wouldn’t do, given that he’s a man of the church.

He takes long strides as he reaches the third corner, and only then does he breathe a sigh of relief when he can finally see the high roof of what he claims as his home. He makes his way to the gate, a small smile finally gracing his lips, as he thinks of his bed and dreams of getting some decent rest when he halts upon getting to the steps.

There on the steps, all hunched and curled up in a ball with only a thin, gray blanket to cover himself, is Goku, who seems to have fallen fast asleep, given the light snores and the occasional twitching of his fingers.

Sanzo removes his hat and squints, even stepping aside to let the moonlight shine on the young man, and surely enough, the thick mop of hair and that tanned skin can only belong to Goku. The priest gulps and looks around, checking to see if there are many eyes roaming about in this time of night, and sees none. He sighs, and nudges the boy twice.

“Goku, Goku, wake up.”

He cups the young man’s chin and taps his cheek twice instead, and lets out a breath when those golden eyes slide open just a tad.

“…Breakfast…?”

A question suddenly pops in Sanzo’s mind upon hearing the young man’s response upon being woken up, but quickly discards it, and tries to chuck it to being awakened all of a sudden. “No, it’s not breakfast. It’s me, Priest Sanzo. Why are you here and not at home?”

Goku makes a face, yawns, and grumbles, his eyes still trying to get used to the light of the moon, and lets his head loll in Sanzo’s hand, nuzzling the warmth there. “I fo’got th’key a’work ‘sterday, but I don’wan’ t’go there today b’cause ‘ts m’day off, s’ I’ll jus’wai’ t’morrow.”

Sanzo tries to make sense of what the boy has just said, and then—“Why not just wait outside your home? Or come over to a friend’s house instead of here?”

Goku scrunches his face, his brows knotted, and Sanzo thinks he must have fallen asleep again, until he grumbles, “It’s comfortable here…” And he falls asleep once more.

The priest checks around once more to see if there are any passersby, finds none, and scratches his head. Sighing, he takes out the key from his pocket and unlocks and opens the church doors. Scrunching his nose as he pockets the key, he lets out another sigh as he bends over and picks Goku up, and finds the young man to be surprisingly light despite looking so lean. He hums, and nudges the brunet’s head to his shoulder so he won’t bump his head on the door as Sanzo steps inside.

The priest tries to make do of where to put the young man, as he feels quite cold from being outside for who-knows-how-long. He purses his lips as he looks at the pews, knowing it’ll be too hard to sleep on. Definitely not the floor, as it’ll be too cold. He hums, and eyes the altar, where he keeps a spare blanket and futon under it in case of anyone seeking sanctuary for the night—like Gojyo had.

He tuts, and quickly glances at the crucifix above, and averts his gaze quickly.

Taking in a deep breath, he walks over to the altar, and bows before the wooden symbol. “He is seeking sanctuary for the night, and I am to take care of him,” he says loudly in the quiet of the room, hearing his voice reverberate throughout. At one point, he thinks it may wake Goku up, but it didn’t. He finally lets out a sigh of relief, and glances at the crucifix once more.

He carries the young man behind the sacristy, and makes his way behind a hidden door and trudges up the spiral staircase, to where two bedrooms reside—a smaller one for Sanzo, and a bigger one for the occasional acolyte or for another priest visiting the area.

The priest lays Goku on the floor, and hisses an apology when Goku’s head almost hits the floor. Sanzo cradles Goku’s head as he reaches out to the doorknob, and slides the key inside. He opens the door and carries the young man once more.

The white-walled room houses two beds, two dressers, two side tables, an adjacent bathroom, and the lone crucifix, hanging between the two beds to watch over any guest.

Sanzo lays Goku sideways on the plush bed, removes his shoes, and the thin blanket covering him. Once done, he lays the young man on the bed properly, and almost tucks him in, when he notices what he wears—

An oversized, dark blue hakama that slips past one shoulder when Goku moves in his sleep, exposing much of his tanned skin. The smooth shoulder under the dim light of the lamp, the jutting collarbones highlighting his wiry frame, and the smallest peek of pert, dusky ni—

Sanzo gulps and looks away immediately, his eyes wide at what he has just seen. His mouth parts, and tries to steel himself as he feels cold sweat start to form on his brow despite the cold air. His jaw tenses at he casts the sleeping young man a sidelong stare, and feels his skin prickle at the sight of those lips parted in his sleep, inwardly cursing the lamp that dares to cast a golden glow on that bronzed skin, highlighting every jutting bone on that sinful body—

Sanzo unbuttons the top button of his shirt as his breathing comes out in puffs, eyeing the unaware sleeping boy on the bed with barely hidden want. Sanzo gulps, and glances at the crucifix. He closes his eyes in deep thought, and when he opens them, he wordlessly rearranges the hakama and covers Goku with the blanket.

All the while, he feels the tips of his fingers quiver and grow hot as soon as he glides them over Goku’s soft skin. The priest recoils, and feels his lower parts grow heated. He swallows more of his spit, and grunts as he tucks the duvet up to Goku’s chin, and leaves the boy with the lamp now turned off.

Sanzo exits the room with much haste, and goes to his own room next to Goku’s, making sure not to slam the door in his rush. He slides down to the floor and throws his hat off, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as his vision starts to blur from drinking too much tonight.

Gritting his teeth, he palms his eye, rubbing it in hopes of getting some of his vision back, and when it does, he chucks his hat on the coat rack, tossing his coat there, too, as he deftly unbuttons his shirt and plops face first on the bed. He feels his body shiver as he clutches the softness of the sheets, and imagines it as the soft skin of the young man sleeping just in the other room. He grunts and sits up, and eyes the bottle of wine he had left on the bed earlier, and gulps it down, hoping everything will cause him to sleep—

—and when he does, he wishes for everything to be a dream.

* * *

The birds outside signal the people that it’s morning, with the sunlight blaring on everyone’s windows—and in the small room of the priest, Sanzo grumbles the morning away, turning over so he won’t have to face the sun as he buries his head on the pillow that he hugs—

Odd. He only has one pillow.

Sanzo’s brows furrow, trying to remember if he had purchased an extra pillow when—

His eyes snap open as he looks at the pillow he has been hugging, and finds it to be quite warm and slightly hard, and sees the tuft of messy brown hair—and Sanzo inwardly panics.

Thinking about what he had done last night, he can’t recall anything aside from slumping onto the bed and drinking the last of the bottle of wine until he fell asleep and—

Sanzo gulps.

He can’t remember anything else.

His aforementioned pillow shuffles, and Sanzo doesn’t know whether to move his arm away or to let it stay there so the brunet won’t know that he’s now wide awake and should probably apologize for everything and—

The brunet rolls over to Sanzo’s side, facing him, and violet eyes remain wide as he remains not moving nor breathing—

Goku nuzzles the pillow in his sleep, and as the sunlight kisses his faces, he twitches, and slowly opens his eyes, and sees Sanzo being bathed in a bright light.

“Good morning, Pastor. Thank you for letting me stay here.”

Sanzo’s mouth falls open as he sees Goku’s small smile, those large, golden eyes reflecting Sanzo’s quiet surprise.

* * *


End file.
